


Pis Aller

by Fruityloo



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Vampire: the Masquerade Fusion, Diana Berrigan (White Collar) - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Vincent Adler (White Collar), everyone is a vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fruityloo/pseuds/Fruityloo
Summary: A month after ousting the last of its Sabbat packs, the Camarilla vampires of New York struggle to maintain their hold on the city. Peter Burke, the city's Sheriff, taps every resource at his disposal to keep the city stable. He must also ensure its humans remain none the wiser, thereby maintaining the Masquerade.Neal Caffrey, master thief, forger, and con man loyal to no sect but himself, strikes a deal.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Literally no one asked for this fusion fic, but sometimes you just have to treat yourself. I'm currently enamored with the tabletop RPG Vampire: the Masquerade, and absolutely had to write something set in its universe. This happened.
> 
> I've done my best to naturally integrate explanations of terms and in-world politics. No prior knowledge of VtM is required! Special thanks to my VtM-illiterate beta Andi, who's been a great help in making sure I don't slip too far off the VtM deep end. 
> 
> This fic was a massive undertaking for myself & I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you!

Neal watches. With a stake through his chest and a body that refuses to listen, all he can do is watch. He's been stuck in this trunk for the better part of an hour, counting turns and double-backs as if knowing their destination would somehow tilt this in his favor. They slow to a stop. Car doors slam. Footsteps.

The trunk’s blackness turns to brilliant streetlamps. Even expecting it, New York blinds him. Cool air rushes over his face and Neal takes a long-needed breath.

Addendum: he tries to take a breath. Nothing happens.

Panic rushes through him, _was this the right move will this even work oh god what if it doesn’t what if they kill me._ He has no failsafe. Only a last resort. 

Diana hauls him onto the concrete and he takes it like a kiss, grit sticking in his cheek. The panic must show in his eyes, because Diana says, “Don’t worry, Caffrey. This might just be the last stake you’ll ever see.” He isn’t quite sure how to take that.

Peter hauls him up by the armpits. At least that went to plan. _Peter is here_. Mentally, Neal relaxes, even while his body stays stiff as a board. Damn stake.

From outside, New York’s seat of Camarilla power looks like anything but. Set in the seedier end of Manhattan’s business district, with shades drawn around the clock, Neal can scarcely distinguish its worn brown brick from the brick surrounding it.

With nothing to do, and unable to move, Neal watches. Watches. Passes out, maybe. The next thing that registers is the chime of an elevator bouncing of empty tiled floors; whitewashed walls, utilitarian acoustics. He floats somewhere above and just left of his body, and watches as Peter says something, eyes hard, mouth a tight line, but his brow drawn tight with… something. Concern, maybe.

Neal claws behind his eyes, digs his teeth into consciousness and snaps back into his body with a start. The room registers in pieces: a window, shades open, lights dancing a million stories below. _Ugh._ Nausea tethers him to his body, and he clings to the discomfort. He needs to be here for this. Has to listen. Plan. Plead. Cool tile soothes his raw cheek. More tile? Not standard for an office. But-- easier to get blood out of tile than out of carpet. That bodes poorly.

Occupants fill in last, each occupying the whole of his consciousness, mind sticking and analyzing before moving on to the next. Diana, watchful in the corner. The legs beside him belong to Peter - he’d recognize those off-the-rack slacks anywhere. And that’s Neal’s blood on the cuff; only Peter got that close during their fight. Elizabeth interrupts a full view of New York’s skyline - the Harpy? That only confirms what he suspected when they dragged him here: a quick, quiet sentencing. The Harpy is here for public opinion. Neal did some digging on her. She’s… fair. Not a pushover. Not cruel. That’s rare, for a vampire, even a Toreador like herself.

She stands behind an unfamiliar woman, who sits at the head of a conference table, looking tired and severe.No, wait. Neal’s seen her before, just from very far away. A new rush of panic fills him, this one so powerful he swears if he could move, he would have doubled over. _The Prince_.

“...Can’t just steal from the chantry uncontested.”

“And I agree, but if the Tremere won’t trust me, _the Sheriff_ , to secure their building, then I can hardly-”

The Prince cuts him off, but Neal’s focus slips, tired and aching and in need of blood, and besides, he knows the jist of it: No one trusts the Tremere, and the Tremere trust no one. That’s why they’re so easy to steal from; half the time, they’re not even meant to have the things he takes in the first place.

“...hear what he has the say,” Neal tunes back to a woman’s voice; Elizabeth, he thinks, but before he’s certain, a boot digs into his side and rolls him to his back. Neal stares up at the ceiling, and counts tiles to keep himself awake, “We have to show the Independents we’re better than the Sabbat, or we’ll have shifting loyalties on our hands…”

Elizabeth keeps talking, but Neal’s vision goes cross-eyed with the effort of paying attention. Peter stares down at him, his expression too complicated to pick apart as he says, “I’m going to remove this stake, and so help me, Neal, there are four of us in the room, and if you try to run, we _will_ ash you.”

 _Message received_ , he doesn’t say, but Peter must see something in his eyes, because the next few moments are a rush of pain. Peter’s boot on his chest for leverage, he yanks the stake from his chest. Neal rolls onto his side and stays there, groaning. He won’t be running.

He’s too close.

“Actually,” Neal wheezes, breath whistling as he climbs to his knees and stares up at the ceiling, as if catching his breath, as if he needs to, “I can just steal from the chantry, if I wanted, because as dear Harpy pointed out, you Camarilla are spread a little _thin_. It wouldn’t be that hard.”

“Ash him,” says the Prince.

“My point is-!” Neal continues before anyone moves, glad two of the four in this room are Brujah, and not inclined to take orders when it can be helped, “The Sabbat are gone,” gone and he’s still here, “but _now what?_ You’re spread thin. I sat on that heist for two weeks before you got wind,” not that he ever intended to  go through with it. Just wanted Peter’s attention. And here he is, before the Prince with Peter at his side, a silver tongue and nothing else, “You need an ear to Independents if you want to keep New York stable. I think you know that,” he shrugs, and his shoulders _ache_ , but he swallows his wince, desperate to get his offer on the table. The Prince made it clear she has no problem ashing him. Navigating post-war politics is like walking a tightrope, with sharks on both sides. “I’m an Independent with a good ear. Let me be yours.”

Still on his knees, Neal keeps his palms flat, head not bowed but not defiant, either. Perfectly neutral and perfectly trustworthy.

“Diana.”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Stake him. Peter, stay with me. Let’s have a chat.”

Neal’s grunt cuts off abruptly. He means to fall into unconsciousness without resistance-- events are well and truly out of his hands now. But he struggles. Claws behind his eyes to keep them open, stay alert, prepare to fight.

But blood loss is exhausting even for a vampire, and Neal falls into unconsciousness with only final gambit on his mind. 

* * *

 

Neal comes to consciousness in a different room; this time, opening his eyes isn’t a frantic scramble toward consciousness but a slow slog through mud. When he gets them open, Neal finds himself in a windowless cubicle, stuffy and a small, and the same clean tiled floor. A round hook in the floor that makes no attempt to hide its purpose. With great rush of relief, Neal notes he isn’t chained to the floor, and takes that as a good sign.

The door swings open and in steps Peter, eyes blue-rimmed with exhaustion, but his forehead is smooth, free of worry. He again pulls the stake from his chest, the familiar wet sound bouncing nauseatingly against the walls. Neal groans.

“Neal.”

Peter stands over him holding a Styrofoam cup. Blood. Neal struggles to sit up, back against the wall for support. Every movement sends a stab up his spine and a twist through his gut. Sitting takes longer than it should.

“I’ve got you.” Peter guides him into a sitting position with a hand on his back, slowly. Neal gasps in pain even as his attention narrows to the cup in Peter's hand.

“You know what this is?”

“Blood.” Instantaneous.

Peter holds it beneath his nose. Fuck. Fuck, that’s torture. “Tell me again.”

Neal’s eyes flutter shut. He pushes past the hungry _want want need need gonna die if I don’t feed gonna die_ and focuses. Its contents give off less heat than normal. And yet, something familiar: a note of power, a note of death. It smells like ritual, like Vaulderie, Kate on his right and Keller on his left, knife in Adler’s left hand, chalice in the right, and _pack_ strengthening between them-

He’s drifting. Neal pulls himself back to the present, to Peter staring down at him and smelling _so fucking good god I’m hungry-_

“Vampire blood,” not the heady blend of four sources melding into one, it carries only a single note. One vampire. Neal opens his eyes just in time to catch Peter’s nod, “Yours.”

“You know what that means?”

If Neal had more energy, he may have rolled his eyes. Might've laughed. But he's too tired for theatrics, stripped of every mask he owns, left with only vulnerable truth written in his voice, “I know what a blood bond is.” But kudos to Peter for wanting Neal to know what kind of servitude they’re pushing him into, before they push irrevocably.

“Good,” Peter breathes, and hands over the cup for Neal to take. To make him complacent in his own bondage.

 _According to plan_ , Neal thinks wryly, and takes the cup to his lips with both hands. It’s a far cry from the Sabbat's Vaulderie, but then, that’s the whole point. “I’m yours, Peter.”

And he drinks.

 


	2. 1: even good whiskey burns the throat

“Does he ever stop talking?” Diana asks, nodding her head in Neal’s direction. He’s chatting amiably with a group of young Brujah. Peter recognizes his clanmates by face, but they’re not important enough to know by name.

“No,” Peter says dryly, trying not to stare, “he doesn’t.”

Elizabeth smiles and pats his arm, “He’s delightful.”

He watches Neal perform some overrated coin trick, distracted by Neal’s confident grace and the way he holds a crowd; Peter he barely notices Ruiz approaching until they’re face to face, Ruiz’s hand outstretched in a facsimile of cordiality.  

“Pleasure to see you, Sheriff,” Ruiz smiles, fanged. Why bother to hide when not a single human soul is allowed in the building?

Peter suppresses the urge to bare his own teeth and snap when Ruiz turns his head to glance at Neal. It’s a deliberate gesture, meant to say _I don’t see you as a threat. Watch me turn away from you._ He burns blood, mimicking what Elizabeth taught him of Auspex. He imagines pushing himself outward, pushing himself to see just one step beyond the material. Ruiz fuzzes for a moment before melting back into clarity, a pale aura of the dead enveloping him. It’s not common for Brujah to read auras, but Elizabeth comes by the skill naturally, she’s an exceptional teacher, and as New York’s sheriff, Peter appreciates any edge he can get.

“Looks like your partnership with Caffrey is going well,” Ruiz continues, none the wiser. Barest hint of bitter brown swallows the crown of Ruiz’s head. So this is about jealousy? Sure. If Ruiz wants to pout because the Prince won’t hand Neal over for the Tremere to deal with, then he’s welcome to pout.

And if the Sheriff looks reasonable because of it, then that’s just a happy bonus.

“I had my doubts,” Peter admits, “but having an Independent under our belt is _invaluable_.”

 _You aren't getting him, slimey warlock_.

Ruiz conveniently catches the eye of a blond woman lingering against the wall, and excuses himself. Peter smiles, knowing he’s won this quiet power struggle.  

“You know,” Elizabeth hums, low enough that Ruiz - _probably_ \- can’t overhear, but unconcerned that he might, “For a man who hates politics, you’re quite good at them.”

“Don’t remind me.”

He should probably warn Neal about Ruiz.

“Neal,” he speaks in an octave just barely above speaking, but Neal still lifts his head to look at him. Peter gives the two finger summons. Neal meets his eyes, smiles, and returns to chatting. A clear dismissal, a _You don’t need me right now_ , a moment of _I don’t give a damn_ rebellion. Neal loves this, pushing limits.

Ruiz and his friend - clanmante, out of towner, Peter barely recognizes her face - watch the exchange from far away. A few heads turn.

Peter can’t allow this. For Neal’s safety.

He stalks across the room, posture tight and looming, shoulders squared. He’s not approaching frenzy, not the kind of Brujah who flies off the handle easily, but he looks it. Heads turn and bodies clear his path, the more observant looking on with wary eyes. All eyes except Neal.

“Neal,” his says mildly, and claps a hand over the nape of Neal’s neck. He smiles dangerously, and Neal shudders beneath him, blood sensing Peter’s displeasure even if that indecently charming smile still lights his face with cheer.

“Hello Peter,” he twists to face him, feigning a wide-eyed mimicry of surprise. Utterly convincing if not for the scarlet aura of mirth fluttering just above his skin, invisible to all but Peter, “Do you need something?”

“Come join us,” Peter tilts his head toward his coterie. Elizabeth’s engaged Diana in intimate conversation; they lean into each other, Elizabeth’s laughter a delighted bell atop the quiet murmur of conversation, aura a content pale blue. It’s amazing, how comfortable she is playing politics. Neal has already taken to this game like Mozart to requiem; with a decade’s practice, Peter imagines Neal would look just as at home and almost as influential, a natural Harpy. A terrifying thought.

Neal bids the group farewell, smiling impishly. He looks absolutely, ridiculously coquettish, but follows at Peter’s heel without argument.

“You know,” he slips gracefully into their half-circle of conversation, looking as at home here as he did with the Brujah, and not for the first time, Peter wonders at Neal’s clan, “At first, I thought maybe I didn’t like the look of this building because the first time you took me here, I had a stake in my chest. Thanks for that, by the way” and _there_ , a single flicker of anxious static framed by a face lit energetic scarlet. Even Neal’s aura is a puzzle, colors layered on top of each other in dizzying fashion, “But I’ve gotten pretty familiar with this building, and I’m pretty sure the architecture is just ugly.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but Elizabeth laughs. “Maybe someday they’ll let you in Burke lounge and you can see the kind of Elysium that I keep.” She looks to Peter expectantly.

“That’d be great, if Peter let me anywhere near the place,” he sounds light as air, but the tight lines of his throat whisper anxiety even more clearly than the otherworldly static sputtering around his lips. He fixes Peter with a defiant gaze, “Did you need me for something?”

“Yes,” Peter says mildly, heat simmering beneath his tongue and bleeding out into his words. Neal shudders again, and he supposes that is gratifying, if not a little hollow. He’d rather have obedience freely given, blood aside, but there’s blood between them for a reason, and Peter will use it, when he has to. “I wanted to warn you about something, but I don’t know why I bother.”

Neal looks amused. “Who, Ruiz?” he actually _laughs_ , “I’m not worried about him.”

“You should be.”

Neal shrugs.

Peter barely bites back a growl. “Let’s take a walk,” he gestures for them to get some fresh air and stalks off. Neal follows, if only because propriety demands it. Their path turns a few curious heads on their way to the elevator, but no one stops their progress.

Once they're out the building, Peter let's his auspex drop, and Neal’s aura fades until only the grey concrete remains. New York isn’t nearly as cool as it should be in autumn, the concrete holding midday heat well into the night. They start walking.

“You can’t do that,” Peter sighs.

“Do what?”

Neal knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“Undermine me.”

“Can’t handle a little disobedience?” He grins like he’s just won a private bet.

“I don’t give a damn if you listen to me or not, Neal.” He stops walking a few blocks away, standing in front of a rusted bench, “But everyone else in that room? Ruiz? Cares. They smell weakness, they won’t come after me. Do you understand?”

Neal squares his jaw, and says nothing.

He gets the message. Peter presses anyway, “I have status. A position. You’ve got-- who, Mozzie? Mozzie and a visible link back to me.” It’s not easy integrating into Camarilla society when things are stable. Right now? Impossible. So they passed Neal off as his-- something. As his prodigal son returned, as the ex-ghoul at his domitor’s side (that one hits close to home), as the youngest childe of Peter’s sire, his brother. The story changes each time Neal tells it, but all lies and half truths revolve around Peter. It makes Neal into someone worth knowing -- but ultimately, disposable. If someone wants to get at Peter, the stranger without connection poses an attractively vulnerable in.

“I _understand_ , Peter!”

“Do you? They’ll come after you, Neal, and I might not be able to protect you.”

Peter expects a rebuttal. _I can protect myself_ , Neal’s gaze flashing defiance, _I was stealing from the Tremere for years._ But just when Peter thinks he has Neal pegged, Neal laughs instead. The game tilts, and suddenly Peter is sure he never really understood Neal at all.

“That’s brutal, you know that?” Neal sits down and throws an arm over the bench’s rusted back, while Peter opts to stand and lean against cooling brick. “I’m almost impressed.”

He sighs, and lets that half of their conversation fall to the wayside. “We’re a den of traitorous snakes. I get it.”

Neal stands and pretends to brush dust from his impeccable suit. Clan Ventrue, maybe? He looks the part, and carries himself with dignitas.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” defiance flashes again behind his eyes, and Peter strikes Ventrue from the list. Neal navigates propriety, wears the suits and talks the talk, but he’s too much of a rebel to tolerate that sycophant lot. Brujah? Possible, but it doesn’t feel right.

“And?”

“Eating, Peter! I’m hungry. Is it enough that you own me, or do you have to know my every move?”

Peter sighs. “Don’t overreact. Things are…” he thinks back to Ruiz, the flash of brown that halos his face and their thinly veiled power struggle, “Complicated. Don’t cause any trouble.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

* * *

 

The bridge to Staten Island never felt quite so long. Attending court makes Neal’s skin crawl. He plays people off each other masterfully, learns secrets and sifts kernels of truth from every hushed rumor like second nature. It speaks of a time before his Embrace, conning for his next meal, then conning because he could, for the _thrill,_ knee-deep in a game he didn’t understand, and--

_And there’s blood in the curve of his hip blood seeping into the mattress a handprint on his chest sticky brown brown everything gone black. Hands everywhere. One in his hair, on his neck, two gripping his hips, fingers on his wrists. He floats, he feels good, good, sick and drowning-_

No, Neal doesn’t like when Peter brings him to court. It’s an unavoidable hazard of the job, and the price of safety has never been so low. Nights like this, Neal wishes he could still stomach a drink, just one, enough to take off the edge. But he’ll take the next best thing and swing by Mozzie’s, chat up the drunkest human he can find and get buzzed on the blood. Staten island belongs to the Anarchs-- a half step left of the Camarilla. Entrenched enough that the Sabbat wouldn’t dar step inside. Right? Mozzie is there, and that doesn’t make a territory safe, but it’s something.

For reasons beyond Neal, Mozzie’s named his place _The Lone Gunman_ , after a short-lived X Files spinoff that was airing when he bought the building. Neal won’t claim to understand Malkavian logic, but he’s glad for it; Mozzie is the only man in New York who knows what he is: defected Sabbat, hiding with his tail between his legs.

Mozzie is a good friend. Odd, but good, and Neal can’t get out of the cab fast enough.

Except it’s Alex, not Mozzie, serving drinks behind the bar. Her beachy brown hair is pinned high into a complicated up-do. Her outfit blends seamlessly into the modern nights, but she could never give up the hair.

 _The Lone Gunman_ can only be described as quaint: nestled between a gentrified Gourmet Cupcake shoppe (spelled with an _e_ , of _course_ it is) and place selling homemade candles whose inventory never seems to actually change. The _Gunman’s_ familiar interior speaks of eclectic taste: original hardwood floors, classy, but with cracking varnish, walls decorated by rusted street signs, abstract art and faded band posters ranging anywhere from the 50s onward. It attracts more hipsters than Wall Street wolves, which is just as well. Hipsters have better taste in art.

Alex speaks in quick, hushed tones to a man whose back Neal doesn’t recognize. It looks important, so he burns blood. His hearing kicks up; combined with some elementary lip reading, Neal understands a few words

“...took one of _our_ ghouls and gave him-- Neal!”

He stops burning blood and tries not to look like a firework just lit off beside his ear.

“How’s our local Cam-dog?”

The man gives an awkward half-nod and ducks around the corner toward a flight of stairs just out of view. Neal ignores the friendly insult and approaches the bar, eyebrow raised. “Trouble?”

“Politics,” she sighs. It’s an impressive cover-up, but Neal conned long enough to recognize the way Alex’s nails dig into her palms just below the counter to dampen her frustration.

“Not work?” Alex dealt with plenty of unsavory sorts as a fence, but from that snippet of conversation, the trouble sounded vampire.

She smiles thinly.

“Don’t suppose you’d share your problems with a Cam-dog?”

“Don’t suppose,” she parrots, but her expression fills out into a genuine smile.

“So,” Neal decides to drop the matter. He’s _not_ here for politics. “Anyone good upstairs?”

“Define good.”

Moz keeps a small number of ghouls around: humans bound by blood to serve - uncomfortably close to home, but Neal isn’t in a particularly discerning mood, and he’s only one thing on his mind. “Preferably drunk.”

“Well, there’s one guy -- tall, big shoulders, dumb sweater vest. Your type,” she sparkles with mischief, “He’s been drinking this all night.” She pulls a bottle of expensive single malt from beneath the counter, amber liquid sloshing against the sides.

Neal makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. “That’s expensive.” And Mozzie overcharges.

“Maybe. But he’s drunker than a skunk and was mumbling something about an ex.”

Translation: easy pickings.

Neal puts his money on the counter and pours a glass himself, adding maybe a finger or two more than he really paid for but, Alex doesn’t comment; it’s not her whiskey, anyway, and they both know Mozzie overcharges. He takes the glass and makes his way upstairs.

The second floor is furnished comfortably, a collection of mismatched couches arrange themselves in a circle around the unlit fireplace. A couple curls close together on a burgundy loveseat, speaking in soft, intimate tones. A few familiar faces dapple the room, standing in couples or small groups at their respective high-topped tables. But the man leaning on his table all alone draws Neal’s attention, a mostly empty glass of whiskey resting at his elbow. Only on glass. Alex perhaps oversold his drunkenness, but that’s just as well. Neal likes chatting with his food, and besides, he never made a habit of getting drunk as a human and there’s no reason to start now, with a vampire’s Beast lurking just below his skin.

“May I?” Neal announces himself and sets the the glass down rather than wait on an answer. The man startles and looks up at him, eyes a warm, honeyed brown, a little unfocused, but sharpening when they fall on Neal.

“Oh, uhm-” he clears his throat, fingers slipping on the outside of his glass. It’s cute, actually, this nervous tick, “Go ahead.”

With a brilliant smile, Neal slips comfortably into a seductive mask, predator hanging just beneath, maybe closer to the surface than he’d like. All vampires are cons, at the heart of things. They all want to _take_.

The glass slides smoothly across the table. “I don’t mean to be presumptive, but I noticed you drinking a great bottle of whiskey, and I thought a man with that kind of taste must be quite the conversationalist.”

“Perhaps a little presumptive,” the stranger agrees, eyes sharpening with his smile; not, not very drunk at all. “I’m Danny.” He stands a little straighter and plays with the rim of the proffered whiskey, almost coy.

“Nick.” Neal rests forearms on the table, posture open, telegraphing honesty and interet. His gut says Danny’s interested, and his gut is rarely wrong, but Neal burns blood anyway, just to be sure. Danny’s features sharpen. Fine, wingtip cheekbones and a thin, regal nose, broken once but set masterfully. His eyes really are a wonderful shade of brown, like water through Venice when winter breaks to spring, a half-shade brighter than Peter’s-

“... _bastard beat me to Embracing the kid…”_ Neal slides his gaze toward the fireplace, to the couple speaking quietly; with good reason, it seems. “... _fault for waiting until he was an adult…”_ It’s the man from downstairs, Neal realizes belatedly, his mouth pulled into an unapproachable scowl, radiating gloom. Neal can’t pick a vampire from a crowd the way Moz can; he’s always been terrible with auras, perhaps a side-effect attributed to his lifetime of reading marks cold with his own two eyes. But he doesn’t need Auspex to clock the violent grace beneath this stranger’s shoulders. He looks like a lion in the zoo: predator and caged.

“Nick?”

Neal narrows back on Danny, fighting to keep half an ear across the room, but it’s hard to hold a conversation when even the sound of his name rings like a gunshot through his head. “Yes?”

“You were staring.”

Damn.

He gives up on listening in and drops his hearing down to a normal man’s. He isn’t here to play politics, or act as informant; he’s here to avoid those things, for distraction. Danny could be an excellent distraction, if Neal would just let himself indulge.

And he’s always been indulgent.

“Well, you’re the best thing to stare at in this place,” he answers smoothly, only a half-second’s delay.

Blush spreads further across Danny’s darling ruddy cheeks, only half from whiskey. “That so?”

“I’d say so.”

“You’re saying that to get into my pants.” Danny’s index finger circles the glass. Long and elegant, the pad of his finger blotted with black ink. An artist? That explains why he’s hanging at Mozzie’s, despite looking and spending like he belongs somewhere in Greenwich.

“I’d settle for a kiss.” It’s not sex he’s interested in, anyway.

Danny hums, and Neal has to admit, he enjoys this kind of game: the kind played without stakes. “I think I can spare a little more than a kiss.”

“Yeah?” Neal grins, “Because I think a kiss from you would probably taste even better than this whiskey.”

Laughter bubbles from Danny’s pretty pale throat, high and a little drunken, but nice. “I haven’t flirted like this since…” he trails into a wince. “It’s poor form to mention my ex while talking to the guy I’m trying to pick up, isn’t it?”

Cute, that Danny thinks _he’s_ picking Neal up. “I don’t mind,” he says honestly. “You on the rebound?”

Danny flicks down his gaze, sobered by the topic, “Yeah. Five years and-- Jesus, I’m killing the mood.”

“It’s fine, Danny -- we’re all entitled to cheap breakup sex.” It’s hard, leaving someone you’ve spent  your life with. Neal relates, more than he likes to admit, “Although your whiskey isn’t exactly cheap.”

More laughter, edging back toward delight.

“And for the record, I still think kissing you would taste pretty good.”

“Would you like to find out?” Danny looks up from beneath his lashes and they grin in unison, exes forgotten, pieces of half-heard conversation forgotten. They pay off Danny’s tab and take a cab back to his Brooklyn studio. The _Gunman_ is a long way from home for a drink. During the day, the drive would take an hour, maybe more, but at night the roads are empty and the bridge glittering, quiet. Their cabbie pushes the speed limit and Neal tips kindly.  

Danny stumbles up his stairs, more desperate than drunken, and Neal pretends to stumble with him, delighting in the game of it all, how the performance feels real even to him. He pushes Danny against the door. Danny pushes his tongue into Neal’s mouth. They kiss hard and slow and deep and chaste, everything in between. Even if Danny hadn’t let his ex slip from whiskey-lips, Neal would have known; it’s in the way his fingers dig into hips, how soft kisses more than filthy tongue make him moan the loudest.

The sex is good, if not uninspired. Neal doesn’t mind tender. He doesn’t even mind playing surrogate for Danny’s late relationship; they’re both using each other, and that’s almost a comfort.

It’s sex itself that bores him; nothing more than diversion to his dead body, ultimately meaningless when not with someone he cares for. Neal cares for Danny, but not like he cared for Kate, for Matthew, for his pack.

Neal sits with bare legs hanging off the bed, Danny sleeping softly behind him. His quite snores lull Neal’s mind into the past; they’re almost enough to make Neal miss his pack. But they wouldn’t have left Danny sleeping sweetly in his overlarge bed meant for two, two pinpricks on his neck, a spot of blood on the pillow. His blood would soak the mattress. Neal forces himself to picture it; throat torn open, warm eyes gone cold. He forces himself not to shy away. This is why he left: a hundred reasons piled heavy on his shoulders a hundred bodies piled in their wake-

“Leaving?”  Danny shifts onto his side, voice soft enough that Neal risks burning blood until New York’s ambient light strengthens into a faded orange dawn. His cherub lips pull loose with disappointment, but resignations hardens his tired brown eyes.

“I have to go,” he kisses Danny’s hand, tasting sweat, warm pulse. He misses his pack but the reason for leaving is written in every delicate line on Danny’s palm, in his warm, the softness of his voice. Maybe Matthew was right to call him soft, but Neal couldn’t kill Danny, not if he didn’t have to. “I’d like to do this again sometime.”

Blood bright’s Danny’s cheek as he withdraws his hand. “Sure.” Despite the late hour, Danny wears forced levity with a practiced edge. Perhaps it’s a good thing he and that nameless ex split. Neal can only imagine how Danny got so good at faking contentment.

“I mean it,” Neal smiles down at him, for a moment forgetting Danny’s human eyes can’t see the expression. He smiles anyway. “Dinner first next time. Not a date, but friends. Friends who have _great_ sex.”

Resignation melts into warm anticipation. “There’s a pad on the nightstand, if you want to leave your number.” With that Danny settles back into the covers, wearing a pleased expression he has no reason to believe Neal could make out in any detail. Still, he’s breathtaking, and Neal wonders how he could have ever killed a man at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience! this chapter went through a lot of revising & i'm happy with the final product. 
> 
> comments are, of course, adored <3


	3. Chapter 3

On the night after a hunt, the world is at its most beautiful, its brightest and its _sharpest_. When he ran with the pack he and Kate would gorge themselves then sneak into museums, sit on the cold floor and stare at the artwork for hours like a pair of stoned art students. In the rare times Neal held down a real job between cities, he called in sick the day after feeding. Couldn’t stand the brightness without Kate to lean on. 

He can scarcely stand it now, without any of them, without anyone. After waking, belly still full and warm with fresh blood, he swings from bed and pulls the cover from his easel, gets out his paints and sets to working. It’s the only way to channel this - the restless blood, the wisps of humanity. 

Danny cast in shadows, looking up at him as Neal dressed to leave. He paints the room as it was when burning blood, bright and painfully lovely, but with starker shadows. He lingers on the jawline, traces it with a dry brush to get a feel for its shape and-- and it’s too familiar, his wrist moves with muscle memory.

He painted Adler’s face. 

A hundred dollars in oil paint crashes to the floor. With a growl he tears through the canvas, gets shadow beneath his fingernails and stains his fingertips black, and dully he is aware of  _ frenzy _ , that with blood comes the beast and with the beast comes  _ this _ \- 

The buzz of his cell cuts Neal short. It’s Danny again. Neal takes a breath, focuses on the chemical burn of paint thinner and tries to calm himself. He could text Danny back. Distraction. Lose himself in bed and touch his face until he stops painting Adler in his sleep-

But dismisses the idea. When he can’t paint it right he’ll hate Danny for it and himself and the rest of the world. Vampires, not known for their emotional stability. Except- 

Peter. Predictable like the tide. A force of nature, but ordered. 

Neal stretches another canvas and starts again. This body lacks Danny’s curves; no soft blend of shadow but form defined in stark lines, a hard jaw like Matthew, thin lips like Adler but curved with something that approaches humor. 

God, but he’s beautiful. 

It’s the blood talking, Neal knows. Peter’s blood overpowers Danny’s still, so that he cannot put the Brujah fully from his mind. This does not bother Neal like it probably should. 

It’s what he wanted, anyway. The rough portrait never morphs into someone it isn’t meant to be, doesn’t take on the features of anyone other than who Neal wants to see. For the first time since waking, Neal breathes well. Paint thinner and linseed and blood.

 

* * *

 

Neal greets him shirtless; he smells sharply of chemicals and looks a mess: paint splattered on his palms, beneath his nails and - Peter notes with surprise - in his hair. When Peter captured Neal, staked him through the chest, tore his shirt and broke his nose, Neal still possessed an air of composure. Like he knew what he was doing, always; the man standing before him is a man undone. Neal steps from the doorway, halting Peter’s train of thought from a destination he isn’t quite sure he wants to arrive at. “Come on in.”

Peter steps inside and surveys the scene. “Your paint is on the floor.”

“Amazing detective work,” Neal says blandly, already pulling a clean undershirt over his head. When his head reemerges, the wild look in his eye is gone, replaced with typical mischief. A relief and a concern; he does not want Neal in any sort of distress, and maybe this means whatever he was experiencing had passed. Or it means he’s keeping it from Peter. 

Vampires, always with their secrets. Neal more than most. 

Wet paint catches Peter’s eye; while Neal buttons up his overshirt, he examines the canvas. Peter doesn’t know much about art, but many of Elizabeth’s clanmates are artists of this sort, so he has a vague understanding of the basics. This painting is clearly in its early stages; Neal’s just begun laying down the shadows. WIthout hightlights, the subject’s features are yet vague, but it’s meant to be a face. A man looking down at the viewer; Peter feels small and powerless, vaguely frightened, and Peter realizes with a start that this is a vampire in frenzy. 

Why would Neal paint something so ugly?

Peter blinks, and the effect breaks. The subject is familiar, like looking in a foggy mirror; if the painting was finished, he could recognize the face, intimately. He’s sure of it. 

“Neal…” he turns to ask after the painting’s subject only to find Neal standing close behind him, hair coiffed as it always is, collars pressed flat and suit ironed to perfection. There is no trace of the vampire who greeted him. 

“Peter.”

He steps back so Neal no longer invades his personal space, then regrets it. Some might take that as backing down, but Neal doesn’t seem particularly pleased. On the contrary, there’s a tight crease on his temples, the implication of a frown that does not quite move his lips. He leans forward, knees locking as if resisting some unseen pull. 

Peter realizes that’s exactly what this is. “Neal, did you- paint  _ me _ ?” 

Neal sticks his jaw up, a half-step from defiance, not quite challenge. “Am I not allowed? You  _ are _ my d-”

He holds up a hand. “Don’t say it.” Domitor. Peter hates the word. 

Neal looks privately amused. 

Desperate to look anywhere but at the man whose will lay under his sway, Peter turns back to the painting. He feels suddenly sick: Neal cannot help but think of him. Peter’s never been under a blood bond, but he knows perfectly well how they work, what they do, how they enslave not the body but the mind; insidious, they demand not obedience but passion, obsession and love. Still beneath the discomfort: itching pride, beast rumbling with satisfaction,  _ I own his mind he is mine he would do anything-  _

Peter takes a deep breath to quiet his mind ( _ quiet the beast _ ). Neal’s loft is a myriad of scent; hardwood, earthen smell, beside sharp and chemical, beside New York’s ubiquitous exhaust, and- and cloying, sweet like blood left out too long- left to dry- like wet paint but sweeter-- 

“You put blood in all your paints?” 

“No,” he counters immediately; it seems to shake Neal from his daze as he frowns, scenting the air. Peter sees the moment Neal notices it, pupils widening, mouth parting. He drags a finger through the wet paint and brings it to his nose with what almost looks like confusion. “Sometimes,” he corrects himself, though he seems unconvinced. He wipes the paint onto the rag beside his palette and turns to face Peter once again. “What are you here for, Peter?”

He tears his eyes away from the painting, thankful for the change in subject. The painting is too strange, and Neal too uneasy about its existance. Peter doesn’t like the implication; that Neal is blacking out, doing things he can’t remember. He is viscerally reminded of the year he was turned, the huge gaps of time where there is nothing, where the beast grabbed hold of his body and Peter cannot remember what he did. Kramer tells him nothing happened. That it was necessary. That living with the beast then means superior control now - and he’s probably right. Peter frenzies less than most Brujah. 

But still, he worries-

“Peter?”

“Right! You weren’t answering your phone.”

Neal raises an eyebrow, “Checking up on me?”

He smiles, comfortable with the banter, concerns fading into background noise in the face of a clear goal. “Work, actually.”

Neal makes a face.

“Do I have to remind you I’m the only reason Ruiz  hasn’t run you out of town?”

“Of course not, Peter. You’re my domitor after all.”

Neal, damn him, grins and Peter cannot help but laugh, “You're incorrigible.”

A beat, and the last of Neal’s tension seems to fade away. “So what’s the job?” He leans against the arm of his couch, sleeves still rolled up and fingernails dappled with paint. It makes a good picture. Peter tries not to notice. 

“It’s not a  _ job _ -job. I’ve got this feeling about some new hotshot setting up haven in my Manhattan.”

“ _ Your _ Manhattan?”

Yes,  _ his _ Manhattan; he’s the Sheriff, and Peter might hate politics but he  _ knows _ them and he damn well knows this city would fall apart without its sheriff. Any sheriff, not just him, but he’s all their recovering city has, so: his Manhattan.

Peter repeats, “He’s setting up in lower Manhattan and my background check came up… too clean. Detroit’s Harpy vouched for him, but I don’t trust anyone that far north.”

“We’re north, Peter.”

“Yeah, but Detroit- practically Sabbat territory.”

“ _ We _ used to be a Sabbat territory. I bet there are still packs on the Island.”

Yeah, Peter’s trying not to think of that, and Neal seems damn unconcerned, for a guy who knows what a  _ pack _ is. He’ll never understand Independents, Neal least of all.”

“Don’t make this difficult and check the guy out, please.” 

He very much does not mean  _ please _ . He very much means  _ by the blood of Cain stop being so difficult.  _ He means  _ obey _ . He means-

Neal’s stopped leaning on the couch and come closer now, eyes a little wide, wide enough that Peter could count each streak of the iris if he wanted to, and he sort of wants to, he- 

Oh. Oh, he’s burning blood. Peter clears his throat and takes a breath, two breaths, until the threads of Neal’s shirt fade back into a single block of color, and Neal’s eyes become merely  _ striking _ once again. 

“I’ll leave this file with you,” Peter says and tosses it onto the kitchen table as quickly as he can. He flies down the stairs feeling foolish, feeling like a goddamn neonate new to his powers and always a half-step from frenzy. He can’t remember the last time he burned blood like that, without meaning too, and for what? Because Neal got on the defensive? Neal is always on the defensive. Even when he’s being friendly, he’s being dishonest; the trick with Neal is to look between the lines, and that is nothing new. But this- 

This is new, and Peter does not like it. 

He does not like it at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shows up 8 months late with starbucks and two new publications] hey what's up, i'm working on this again


End file.
